Skip to main content

Henry and Ribsy and Beezus

"Henry Huggins" is about curiosity and hunger.

Beverly Cleary--a librarian, in her thirties--noticed that (a) most kids' books were bad and (b) boys could generally tolerate a story about a dog, if nothing else.

"Henry Huggins"--Cleary's debut--concerns an ordinary boy who discovers a dog around the corner. Determined to raise this dog--inspired by the dog, in a vague way--Henry makes some arrangements. He will call his mom for permission. (This requires using a phone book as a stepping stool.) Henry will bring the dog home--in a box--on the bus. When the box breaks, Henry gets off, finds a shopping bag, and ties the dog in wrapping paper. ("This is just a parcel.")

When this, too, fails, Henry rides home in a police car. But: mission accomplished. The dog is now a pet.

There isn't anything especially remarkable about Henry, but you root for him; he has goals, and it's fun to watch a scrappy kid with goals. Exploring a fish obsession means staying home all summer with your jam jars; you've got to be sure that each guppy gets a pinch of food. Moving on from that obsession means doing a capitalist tap dance; you have to persuade your vendor to buy back what he has already sold.

People say, about young great talents: "She's like Athena, popping out of Zeus, already fully-formed." That's true for Beverly Cleary. The humor, the eye for detail, the gift for pacing: They're all present in her very first novel.

I'll keep looking at "Huggins" as Mrs. Cleary's important birthday approaches.....

P.S. Cleary says she set out to write about a girl, not a boy, but Henry's voice became insistent in her head. Other voices followed--scraps of ideas Cleary couldn't abandon. You see that in "Henry Huggins," when a girl called Beezus ("her sister Ramona couldn't say BEATRICE") makes her first appearance......

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...